Cry
by a simple echo
Summary: You never know when the past will sneak up on you . . .
1. Default Chapter

A/N-This is just a short prelude, but please let me know what you think. I've never posted a story on ff.net, and it's been a long while since I've worked in this fandom, so I'm very interested in how you think it's going.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, except a few I made up. I'm just writing this (hopefully) for the enjoyment of another fan.  
Cry  
Sebastian hated Louisiana. He hated the smell, the sounds, everything about it. Now, he was stuck sitting in some Baton Rouge café, slowly drinking horrible coffee and flipping though four-year old newspaper clippings while the nightshift watched him curiously. About fifteen minutes before, one of the waitresses had dropped the address of a local shelter on the table "accidentally." He couldn't blame her; he had been travelling from El Paso for entirely too long. He was wearing sweat pants and a battered flannel shirt that smelled like an old bus, and his hair hung in oily, dark strands to his shoulders. One more bus and he'd be in New Orleans. He could find a hotel, take a much-needed shower and wash the filth off his body. He picked up his coffee cup and raised it to his mouth. God, how he hated Louisiana.  
  
But he loved his father more.  
  
At the thought, the cup fell to the table and the liquid splashed across the table on onto his clothes. He muttered sharply to himself as the waitress hurried up to him. He smiled apologetically at her and tossed a ten-dollar bill onto the table before hurrying out the door. He could kill the next half an hour at the bus station.  
  
He made it about two doors down from the café when the thought of his father invaded his mind. Sebastian didn't want to like the man. But he couldn't help it. For the first sixteen years of his life, he never knew anything about the man who ran out on his mother, Anna. All Sebastian knew was that he was alone, left to take care of a woman who was barely an adult herself. But everything changed the summer before he turned seventeen. He had come home from his after school job to find his mother sitting on the steps of their West Texas house with a strange man who looked like he had been to hell and back. Anna had been crying, that was obvious. And it looked like the older man had probably spent some time in tears, too. Sebastian only had to come within ten feet of him to see the resemblance, and know-soul to soul-that the man on the front steps was his father. He tried to resent him. Tried so hard to hate. But as time went by, they had developed a friendship, if not a parent/child relationship.  
  
It had taken almost four years for Sebastian to grudgingly admit he loved the older man. And that brought him to two weeks ago, when his father's lifeless body was found in a gutter.  
  
Sebastian paused at the bus station, as the cold recollection of that day flooded him again. He vaguely remembered Anna telling him what had happened. He only vaguely remembered the next few days. But suddenly, he found himself in his parent's closet, going through an old box the man had brought with him when he came to El Paso.  
  
In that box were newspaper clippings of murders in Louisiana, the last of which coincided with his father's leaving the state. Under those was a thick notebook, written partly in English and partly in a language Sebastian didn't know. Then there were three pictures, all of the same person. She was young, maybe fifteen, and fairly pretty. The photos were all black and white, so he couldn't tell whether she was blonde or a redhead. And she would be about nineteen now anyway, so she could have jet- black hair for all he knew. All he did know was written in the notebook. "Don't let the demon get her," was written over and over again between the long entries he couldn't read. He knew that, whoever she was, she'd know what happened to his father.  
  
And four years ago, she was in New Orleans. It was a needle in a haystack, he knew. But it was as good a place to start as any. 


	2. Chapter One

Chapter one  
  
Jessie Bannon pulled her living room blinds back and gazed out at the city streets. Wind shook tree branches and lightning created a stunning light show. It hadn't started raining yet, but it would. The Weather Channel warned against flash flooding. The anchor had suggested that anyone who didn't have to travel stay at home. Within seconds of the warnings being issued, the phone started ringing. She knew before she answered it that it would be her father. She picked up on the third ring, and apparently, Race thought that was entirely too long and had practically interrogated her with questions about what she was doing and whether she was okay or not.  
  
Five minutes into the conversation, he suddenly asked, "Why don't you come home for the night?"  
  
"I'm fine here, Dad," she replied quietly.  
  
"What if your power goes out?"  
  
"I have flashlights."  
  
"We have generators," he persisted.  
  
She shook her head and switched the phone to her other ear. "The guy on the Weather Channel said not to travel if I didn't have to. And, yes, I know I could probably beat the storm, but why chance it?"  
  
Race sighed, knowing she wasn't going to budge. "I worry about you, kid. Miss the hell out of you too."  
  
"I've only been gone for two weeks," she said. Outside, a loud clap of thunder heralded the beginning of the rain. Jessie closed her eyes; a ghost of a smile graced her features. "I miss you too. I'll come home next weekend."  
  
"Promise?"  
  
"Yeah, I'll see you then. Love you."  
  
"I love you too."  
  
The power went off almost immediately after she hung up the phone. She fumbled with a lighter and lit the candles she had set up on her end table. She settled herself in the overstuffed chair and picked up a magazine.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Race hung up the phone and paced his room. She was going to give him an ulcer, or maybe a stroke. And if his hair wasn't already white, it'd be gray. Over the past few years, he had learned that his daughter was going to make choices he never expected her to make. Living with that was harder.  
  
Jessie was sixteen when something changed in her. To this day, he didn't know what it was. But for a solid six month, she barely said more than three words to anyone. Even her teachers were calling him, concerned. Her grades had never slipped, but it became obvious that something had changed in her. The news had been full of teenagers slipping through the cracks-suicide, drug use, cult activity. Race practically worried himself into a heart attack. Nothing he could do could get through to her.  
  
Then one day, he walked into his room to find her sitting on the foot of his bed. It was three weeks before her seventeenth birthday, and she had wanted to talk. Silently, he had thanked God in every language he knew. At last, he could help her work through whatever was wrong and things could go back to normal. Then she had looked him square in the face and told him she decided to get a GED and start college as soon as possible. She also told him that she was planning on finding a job to pay for her education, and maybe move out.  
  
It took him a solid minute before he could speak. He had tried to stay open and supportive, but they still ended up arguing. At least Jessie had known that he was acting out of concern, not anger. Eventually, Race asked that she at least stay at home for a few more years, because he didn't want her risking her education by trying to support both an apartment and tuition.  
  
She finished her GED classes quickly, and took the test right after her seventeenth birthday. She took a job at a vet's office, surprising her family even more, and started taking core classes at a small community college. She earned grants and scholarships, which basically paid for her classes, then figured out a strict budget.  
  
Then, when Jessie turned nineteen, she left. Race stopped, and thought about the months they spent preparing for her to move out. She had taken it slowly, looked at several different places before deciding on a small apartment complex about an hour away from the Quest Compound. It had been about two weeks, and he still wasn't used to the empty house.  
  
She said she'd be home next week. Jonny would probably come home from his first semester at college too. Race grinned. That'd fill some space.  
  
* * * * *  
  
At that moment, Jonny was drumming his fingers on his notebook, staring aimlessly at the word Machiavellian, and wondering what possessed him to take this class. Checking his watch, he wondered if either Jessie or Hadji would be answering the phone at this time of night. He thought Jessie might have had a date that night. Which means either she wasn't home yet, or she was home . . .with her date. His face broke into a slow grin. Oh, yeah, that decided it. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number and waited.  
  
"'ello?" Her soft voice came on the other end of the line.  
  
"Hey, am I interrupting?" He asked. She caught the amused lilt in his voice.  
  
"Yeah, American Heritage magazine. Page 15."  
  
"I thought you had a date tonight."  
  
"Did," Jessie replied, laughing. "I cancelled. I told him I had to meet with my professor and catch up on a project."  
  
"Did you?"  
  
"No. It's raining like mad, and the guy's not my type anyway."  
  
Jonny grinned. "So you lied to him. Very Machiavellian of you."  
  
There was a long silence on the line. When she finally spoke, he could hear the fact that she was close to laughing, "Machiavellian?"  
  
"That's what I'm studying right now. I needed a break," Jonny switched the phone to his other ear. "When are you heading home?"  
  
"Next weekend," she replied. "Dad was flipping out on the phone earlier."  
  
"He's your dad, it's his job."  
  
"True," she acknowledged. "I didn't get to talk to Dr. Quest on the phone. How's he doing?"  
  
"Misses you too. I'm home at least four days a week," he got very quiet. "Seriously, are you okay?"  
  
She smiled. "I'm fine, Jon."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Have I ever lied to you?" She reconsidered quickly. "At least when you've asked me a question point-blank?"  
  
"Not really. You tend to beat around the bush a lot."  
  
"Yeah, whatever. So how's that ditz you've been seeing."  
  
"Nice subject change. More ditzy than ever," he laughed. "I can be shallow about one relationship, right?"  
  
"Hey, you're the one spending money dating her," Jessie said.  
  
"She thinks you and I are messing around."  
  
The silence following that statement was absolute. Finally Jessie replied, "we should be used to that by now."  
  
"Yeah. She says she's going to break up with me if I don't stop talking to you."  
  
"Oh Jonny, I'm sorry . . ."  
  
"Don't be. This is the shallow relationship, remember? Besides, you're one of my best friends. If she doesn't want me to see you, screw her," he paused. "Besides, I think her desire to be filthy rich might outweigh my talking to you. Despite what she thinks, this relationship isn't going anywhere anyway."  
  
"So you're basically giving her false hope so she'll keep sleeping with you, right?"  
  
"Pretty much."  
  
She laughed. "How Machiavellian of you."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Across the street from a small New Orleans restaurant, Sebastian leaned against the wall and watched people pass. He had just spent entirely too much time in the library, looking up the murders that took place years ago, then painstakingly searching any corresponding photograph for the girl in his father's black and white photo.  
  
He wondered, not for the first time, why his father didn't just include the girl's name with the picture. The only thing he could think of was that his father was very old, much older than most men with twenty-one year old sons were. Maybe he just didn't think to do so.  
  
Sebastian turned back to the one picture he thought might be helpful. It was a picture of an old mansion, set back from the main road, with a river running gently around it. Kudzu vines had grown up the side of the house, and began to drape across the rooftop. What drew him to the photo was that it was a file photo, taken by the same man who took the pictures of the murders.  
  
Following a hunch, Sebastian called the newspaper, and asked for the photographer, Alec DuVeaux. Poising as a student at the local university, Sebastian humbly asked if he could interview DuVeaux for the student body newspaper. All the while praying the man didn't ask for details on the newspaper or the university, Sebastian raved about the phenomenal talent and artistic expression that were so obvious in all the photos he had seen.  
  
In the end, DuVeaux ego won out, and he happily agreed to a lunch meeting. Sebastian quickly searched the Internet, and printed out several more shots that had nothing to do with either the murders, or the girl in the black and white photos. Shoving the pictures into his notebook, he left the library and headed for the restaurant. Then he cut across the street to watch. Sebastian watched carefully as the cars zipped back and forth, and people scurried about their day. Finally, a middle-aged man caring what looked like a portfolio turned a corner onto the street and entered the café. Taking a deep breath, Sebastian darted across the street and into the building.  
  
Finding the older man in a corner booth, Sebastian walked up and offered a hand, "Thank you so much for meeting with me."  
  
"You're very welcome," DuVeaux replied with a friendly smile, "I'm always willing to take time out for young, aspiring artists."  
  
Sebastian returned the smile, and tried his hardest to keep his expression somewhat awed. "I was hoping you could tell me a little about how you got your start, and then, maybe we could go over some of the photos you've taken," he pulled out a stack of pictures and set them on the table.  
  
For about thirty minutes, DuVeaux spoke of where he grew up and went to school, his first published photograph and his most recent work. Finally, he picked up the stack of photos and began to flip through them, explaining the shots in painstaking detail. Then he paused.  
  
"This is one of my favorites," he said and began describing in detail the old mansion. Sebastian began to take notes in earnest. Finally, DuVeaux slowed and flipped the page and gasped. "My god, I haven't seen this in years!"  
  
Sebastian looked up, and his eyes went wide. One of the pictures of the girl ended up in mixed into the stack. He mentally put himself back in the library, and remembered how he jammed the whole group of photos together. For a moment, he was afraid he had blown his cover, then it dawned on him. DuVeaux hadn't seen the photo in years?  
  
Eagerness coursed through Sebastian, but he tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible. "What do you mean, haven't seen it for years?"  
  
"I lost this print. Lost the negatives," the older man grinned. "Pissed me off, too. The girl takes such a good picture. I have a few more." And he picked up his portfolio and began to flip through the pages. Finally, he tossed a snapshot on the table.  
  
Sebastian picked it up and stared. There, in front of the old mansion, were three kids. They were all wrapped in blankets, obviously soaked. The detail was wonderful. Two young men, and the girl he had been looking for.  
  
"She is beautiful," Sebastian said quietly. "Any idea who she is?"  
  
DuVeaux shook his head. "It's been several years. One of the boys had a weird name. Couldn't remember if I tried. The other was something-Quest. Her? I could pick her face out of anywhere, but the name? Sorry."  
  
"No problem," Sebastian said with a smile. "Listen, I can't tell you how much help you've been, but I have to be getting . . . back to campus. Thanks so much."  
  
Sebastian stood and shook the other man's hand before gathering the photos, and 'accidentally' picking up a few of DuVeaux. After thanking him once more, Sebastian darted out the door. 


End file.
